The corn grows tall and golden, their shadows stretching long and dark. You ignore the eyes that stare at you through the stalks. You pretend you donβt see them. Itβs safer, that way.
β
The floorboards creek under Wednesdayβs every step, the bouncing echoes giving the unsettling feeling of something following only a few paces behind her. Ahead of her a she-cat walks, picking her way around the gaps in the floor with a familiar ease.
Wednesday peeks through one of these holes as she passes, the jagged wood splintered like teeth, the emptiness below seemingly endless. She shudders, and stays away from the rest.
She has a feeling she doesnβt want to know what lurks in the darkness below.
Ahead of her, the she-cat pauses, looking back to make sure that Wednesday is keeping up.
βYouβre lucky you got here before the rains came,β she says, voice as delicate and dainty as the rest of her. βYou do not want to be caught out in the corn during a storm.β
Wednesday thinks of the tall, waving golden stalks, and shivers. As if on cue, the thundering, echoing thuds of rain against the roof starts up, and she watches as drops of moisture collect in lines across the ceiling, dripping down to the already warped wooden floorboards.
The she-cat does not seem particularly bothered.
Sheβs a young thing, small and white, with the biggest, bluest eyes Wednesday has ever seen. Sheβs pretty, in the sort of way that suggests a kit-like innocence and an endearing sort of shyness, and sheβs a good few moons younger than Wednesday herself. Sheβs the one that had found a confused and very lost Wednesday wandering the dirt pathways crisscrossing the corn fields and the apple orchids, and had brought her up to the abandoned twoleg den.
Sheβd introduced herself as Ophelia, and insisted that Wednesday come home with her, saying that it was not safe for her to be alone.
βYou can come stay with us!β the she-cat had said, leading Wednesday up the front steps of the dilapidated old nest, picking her way around the bramble vines, bristling with thorns and reaching out to snag at their fur. βWe have plenty of room, and the House has been too quiet lately.β
Wednesday still might not have followed, instead choosing a random direction and taking her chances that it was the right one, but Ophelia, as if she could sense Wednesdayβs cramping stomach, had paused at the top of the steps. βWe have plenty of food, more than enough. Please stay for the evening meal, at least.β
Which is how she finds herself following Ophelia through the hallways of what the she-cat refers to as the House. Itβs clear that no twolegs have entered the halls for seasons; the paint is peeling from the walls, the few pieces of furniture left behind covered in thick layers of dust, and the windows are cracked and broken. But thereβs a sort of odd charm to the state of disrepair, the gray light glinting in the shards of broken glass and casting dancing shadows on the faded green wallpaper.
And, Wednesday has to admit, itβs better than curled in a ball somewhere outside, wet and cold and miserable while she waits for the storm to pass.
Ophelia leads her through the house with the kind of easy certainty that comes from knowing the pathways as well as your own paws, and although they seem to be alone, thereβs signs of other life. Pawprints in the dust, the signs of claws sharpened along the leg of a table, the wisps of scent trails that crisscross over each other. Wednesday opens her mouth, tasting the air, trying to pick out individual scents, but the smell of dust and mold and rain overpowers almost everything else.
βThere are others?β Wednesday asks, just to confirm, and Ophelia bobs her head.
βThere are a few of us, yes!β She turns a corner and slips through cracked open door. They enter the kitchen, the floor slick under Wednesdayβs paws and uncomfortably cold.
βHow many?β
Ophelia either doesnβt hear or doesnβt get the time to answer, because sheβs wiggling through a hole in the wall, the door that leads from the kitchen to where ever Ophelia is leading Wednesday closed and unmovable. Wednesday waits for Ophelia to clear the hole, and as she does, she looks up and makes eye contact with a cat perched up on a counter.
The brindled tabby flicks a tail, her smile, while not kind, is not unwelcoming either. Wednesday opens her mouth to ask the catβs name or perhaps introduce herself, but Ophelia calls for her from the other side of the wall, and so Wednesday just gives her an apologetic look and follows after the white she-cat.
The room is large, a row of windows against two of the four walls, the walls red-painted and the furniture dark oak. In the middle of the room is a table, most of the chairs tipped over, the red velvet seats ripped with graying stuffing spilling out. And on the table sit more cats.
Ophelia jumps up onto a chair and then onto the table, and under the sharp gazes of the cats on the table, Wednesday follows, if a bit hesitantly.
βYouβre late,β is the first thing someone says; a black tom with white front paws, his yellow eyes narrowed at Ophelia. She ducks her head, clearly embarrassed.
βIβm sorry, Father.β
βDid you lose track of time?β
Opheliaβs head dips lower. βYes, Father.β
βHmm,β is the only reply, and the tom turns, taking in Wednesday. His gaze is piercing, and Wednesday resists the urge to shift, uncomfortable in the intensity in which he is studying her. βAnd who is this?β
Ophelia perks up a little bit. βI found her wandering the fields, and invited her in before the storm hit. Thatβs why I late.β
βIβm Wednesday,β she offers when Ophelia finishes, and itβs become clear no one else is going to fill the silence. βFromβ¦from the river.β
βI am Poe,β comes the reply, the tom dipping his head ever so slightly in her direction. βAnd as Iβm sure Ophelia has informed you, you are welcome to wait out the storm in the House. We are not heartless; we will not send you to face the rains alone. Come and sit, please. We have plenty of food.β
He shifts aside, opening a gap between him and a small gray tom whoβs barely older than a kit. Wednesday hesitantly fills the gap, extremely aware of the eyes upon her. Ophelia sits down as well, next to a dark gray tom who bumps his nose against hers as she settles next to him. He glances up at Wednesday, and she notices his eyes are two different colors; one amber, one ice blue.
βWell, Ophelia, arenβt you going to introduce our guest?β
Ophelia startles. βOh! Of course.β Looking mildly flustered, she quickly goes around the table, rattling off the names so quickly that Wednesday almost instantly forgets them. A few stand out to her, however. The tom with the bi-colored eyes is Crow, and the way Ophelia says his name- dripping with sweetness and mildly giggly -makes Wednesday think that the two are involved in some way. The kit sitting next to her is Damien, and although his eyes are the same color and lean more towards yellow than true amber, he looks like a tiny copy of Crow, and Wednesday gets the feeling that he is related to Crow in some way.
And thereβs Sabrina. A tuxedo she-cat with a scowl firmly set on her face. Wednesday would not describe her as pretty, if asked; pretty is a better word for Ophelia, who radiates a softness about her. No, the word striking is what comes into Wednesdayβs head first. Sabrina is tall and slender, all angles and lines, amber eyes glinting with a sharp intelligence. She meets Wednesdayβs gaze, frowning, tail flicking in irritation.
βDamien, if you would do the honors?β Poe asks, and the kit springs to his paws immedietely.
Thereβs a pile of prey in the middle of the circle of cats, more food in one place than Wednesday has ever seen. Mice, thrown on top of each other, all still holding their summer plumpness even though winter gets closer with each passing day. This much food could have fed Wednesdayβs family for days, if not weeks. Her stomach cramps tighter, and for the first time she notices how well-fed everyone looks. Even those who are slender, like Sabrina, still have the slightly rounded features that suggest consistent meals, whereas Wednesdayβs softness was stolen from her months ago, replaced with visible ribs and hipbones.
Damien places a single mouse at Wednesdayβs paws, and her stomach growls loud enough that sheβs sure everyone in the circle can hear it. It takes all her self-control to wait until everyone has a mouse in front of them, and even more to prevent her from inhaling the entire mouse once she is able to eat it. Even then, sheβs done with her mouse in half the time it takes for everyone else to finish theirs, left with only bones.
βDamien, arenβt you going to offer our guest another? She is clearly hungry.β
Poeβs voice is calm, and the question directed at the kit by his side, but his gaze is focused solely on Wednesday. She shifts under it, uncomfortable to be the target of his attention. Thereβs something about the way he looks at her that makes her feel like he is attempting to see under her fur, peel her down to her tender insides. It makes ice trickle down her spine, and she suppresses a shiver and forces a smile.
βAnd, as Iβm sure my daughter mentioned, we wonβt send you out into the storm,β Poe continues, Damien dropping another mouse at Wednesdayβs paws with a shy glance. βYou are welcome to stay as long as you like.β
Wednesday shoves her unease down. The tom, clearly the head of this little group, is offering her food and shelter. It would be rude to turn him down, and the thought of braving the rain and cold is not a pleasant one.
So she smiles, dips her head in thanks, and eats her second mouse.
β
At the end of the meal, there are still mice in the middle of the table. Wednesday eats until her stomach aches from fullness, unaccustomed to the sheer quantity of food, and now it churns, making her nauseated.
And there were still leftovers on the table. The amount of food left there makes Wednesday even sicker, even though Ophelia promises none will go to waste just before she vanishes with Crow.
This much foodβ¦it could have saved them. But winterβs chill combined with the rapidly approaching twoleg settlements made all prey scarce, and so she watched starvation take her family as much as the sickness did.
Now, Wednesday is being led through the maze-like halls of the abandoned manner, led by a tiny, brown tabby she-cat who reintroduced herself as Merle. She has a sour expression on her face as she navigates, leading Wednesday to think that the job of escorting her to her βquartersβ as Poe so called them, is not the job the she-cat wants.
Itβs good that she is the guide, though, because the twisting pathways are confusing, and as Merle leads Wednesday up the steps of a staircase, faded, matted red fabric under their paws, Wednesday already feels lost within the halls. Shadows dance along the walls, making the ceiling stretch and warp, giving the sensation that the house goes on forever.
Merle stops outside a door, impatiently waiting for a winded Wednesday to catch up.
βThis is where youβll sleep,β she says, leading Wednesday into the room. Walls, once a pale purple, now hold patches of mold in the corners and are fading to gray. Water drips through a cracked window to pool on the hardwood floor, a deep red curtain suspended to the rod above the window by only a few threads.
βWe will be having our morning meal promptly after sunrise tomorrow,β Merle says, her voice high and the annoyance in it is thinly masked. βDo not be late.β
She goes to leave, but Wednesday stops her.
βWait,β she says, but when Merle turns, she isnβt quite sure what to say. How is she supposed to articulate to this she-cat she barely knows that she doesnβt know if she can bear another night spent alone? That the fact that there are others here and yet she is detached from all of them a sort of unique torture she is not sure she can withstand?
So instead she just shakes her head. βNever mind. Goodnight.β
Merle huffs, and leaves without saying anything else.
Wednesday is left alone again.
She tugs at the curtain until it releases its last grip on the rob and tumbles down in a cloud of dust. Ripping at it, she manages to pull a piece of the heavy fabric away, dragging it into one of the fallen boxes in the corner. The boxes are old and hold the marks of rodents, and a couple are damp, but Wednesday chooses the most intact one, the driest one, and makes herself a small nest.
βI see you have made yourself at home.β
Wednesday jumps, spinning around with claws out, only to find the brindled she-cat from earlier, the one who sat on the shelf in the kitchen. Sheβd managed to approach silently, not alerting Wednesday to her presence until she had spoken.
βOh,β Wednesday says, unsure as to what to say to that. The she-cat smiles, one corner of her mouth quirking up.
βI saw you come in with Ophelia, but I did not catch your name.β
βWednesday,β she says, and the she-cat nods once, as if digesting this information. She sits down, wrapping a long tail over her front paws.
βI came to welcome you, as I was unable to do so earlier,β the she-cat says. Everything about her says calmness and quiet, down to the unusual shade of her eyes. Theyβre the same color as the rainwater collecting in the corner, not quite blue, not quite gray. βI will let you sleep for now, but I expect we will be seeing more of each other these next few weeks.β
βOh, Iβm only staying the night,β Wednesdays says, but the she-catβs knowing smile and noncommittal hmm makes Wednesday question that surety. She is leaving tomorrow morning, has no intention of staying for the morning meal.
Right?
The she-cat stands up and stretches before heading back towards the door. Wednesday stands up. βWait, I didnβt catch your name.β
The she-cat stops, glancing over her shoulder. βMy name,β she says, βIs Rowena. And welcome, Wednesday, to the House.β
And then sheβs gone, as silently as she came.